I Mean Well
by N.a.brun
Summary: An exciting, fast-paced read. All you can ask for in a fic, fluff, angst, and tension. Injuries, kidnapping, and eventual Johnlock. Rated T for expletives. Review to make me smile!
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own any of the Sherlock BBC characters**.

 **EVENING. 1700 HOURS. OUTER LONDON.**

I held one of his black curls between my fingers. For years, I wanted to bunch my hands in his glorious hair, run my fingers through his locks and lay a kiss on that severe hairline. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Sherlock's hair fell from my grasp as I moved on, fervently searching with my fingertips, gently prodding his scalp for the wound that was spewing forth so much blood, so much.

My heart was drumming in my ears, "Help, Help!" I yelled, sparing a glance towards the end of the alley, back toward the main road; with people, and cells with 999 just a button click away.

No one was coming, "Dammit!"

I slapped my friend's ashen face and pleaded with him to wake up, but in my rational brain, I knew it was not going to happen. He was suffering from cerebral trauma, causing swelling of the brain, and my analyzing his injury wasn't helping the situation.

"Sherlock, I don't know what to do," I told my unconscious partner. "I can't leave and get help because you're new friends might still be looking for us. But you're bleeding out! Please, tell m-me, I n-need y-you t-to-"

A sob was clawing it's way up my throat, and sinking it's tentacles into my lungs as I struggled to draw in a breath. I needed to stop panicking! Sherlock would be chiding me, what would he want me to do? I thought and tried to puzzle what Sherlock would do if the situation was reversed.

 _You have to leave me_ you _, idiot_. Sherlock's voice snapped at me in my head.

I knew what I had to do, but I did not like it one bit. I rolled Sherlock into a position where he could breathe easy; arms and legs propping his lungs up in the hope of his airway would become blocked, he would be able to breathe. I gently untied his soft cashmere scarf and lifted his head tentatively so I could thread it underneath and pull it snug, hopefully creating a makeshift bandage in some sense of the word.

I hesitantly rose off of my knees, kicking off the throbbing as blood rushes back into my lower legs. The Detective looked so broken, lying helpless on the ground, and I could hardly tear myself away until I saw the red spot seeping through the back of the scarf.

I went running towards the main road.

 **5 HOURS AGO. MORNING. 1200 HOURS. 221B BAKER STREET.**

"John."

I scratched my scalp, a nervous tick of mine that occurred at irritating moments. I coughed again, not quite used to this new side of my flatmate.

"Eff off you prick."

 _Shite_ John was really angry. I've managed to piss off my one and only friend more times than I can count, sometimes resulting in a split lip, or black eye if it got real heated, but never, has John just shook his head and walked away. Not a word just, walks away.

And I didn't know how, but the cold disappointment I had seen in his eyes, well, it clawed at something deep inside me.

So here I was, standing at his door like a scorned child, still hesitating after being rejected twice.

"I... I brought you your coffee. You left it on the table when you started-"

"Leave it on the step."

I cursed in my head at my flat mate's stubbornness. I sat the mug and saucer on the landing with a clatter. I just wanted to talk to him face to face for goodness sake!

I turned to leave, smoothing down my rumpled blazer in the process, but paused- "I'm sorry John. I... it was not my intention to cause any pain for you. It was horrendously untoward of me."

I waited for a moment, hopefully listening for a response, but none came. I gave up with an irritated sigh and clomped back down the damned loud staircase.

"The problem is you never learn," John responded a minute later, more to himself than anything.

 **PRESENT. NIGHT. 1700 HOURS. OUTER LONDON.**

Banging. Something. Was banging.  
My head- BANG BANG.

It hurts. And _it burns_.

What- a shudder.  
I'm... cold.  
A warm hand- cupping my cheek, a weathered familiar hand.  
Something.  
 _It hurts John._  
John?  
Wasn't right.  
I- I did something.  
I need to fix.  
I need to.  
My fault.  
It burns.

John...  
BANG BANG.

My heart.  
In my head.  
Banging, banging.  
I need to.  
John!  
Apologize.  
My head,  
Fire!  
It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts.  
Mycroft, why can't.  
Why can't he fix-  
THE FIRE.  
It burns Mycroft!  
Help me!  
Help-  
Help.  
H-

 **MORNING. 1130 HOURS. 221B BAKER STREET.**

My knees are killing me today. I think I need an aspirin. The steps are giving me hell, and all I have to look forward to once I reach the peak is my good old armchair.

"Yes, yes, that'll be all fine. Thank you for being so flexible with your time!"

I hear a voice inside the flat as I make my slow approach. Who the hell is Sherlock being so polite to?

"I hear your son coming- would you like to talk to him?"

What the hell? What is Sherlock talking to my mother for?

"No? I'll give him your regards-" I opened the door to the kitchen, seeing Sherlock immediately, who had been pacing around the living area.

"Good afternoon!" He closed the phone with a snap and turned to me.

I felt his eyes rake over me, taking in every detail of my hellish day and joint pain- "What the hell?" I interrupted my daily, one-way interrogation. "Sherlock, please tell me, you didn't just hold a conversation with my mother."

The fool had the audacity to look confused. "What's wrong with me talking to your mother? I'm sorry did I miss something?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose before I even knew I was doing it. It seemed to be an involuntary reaction whenever Sherlock was involved.

I refused to benign that question with an answer, and after a moment of tense silence, Sherlock slid my phone across the kitchen table to me. "You forgot your phone this morning."

"Yes."

Sherlock's confused expression was almost worth a laugh, accepting the fiery pit of irritation sat in John's gut.

"Your mother just called," Sherlock was trying to fill the silence which was quickly becoming awkward.

"I can tell."

He squirmed under my gaze.

"Sherlock, what did you do?" I sighed, starting myself a cup of coffee and sitting down at the table wearily.

My flatmate's eyes widened and he knew he was backed into a corner. He squinted and itches his head before blurting out,

"Your great Aunt passed away."

I paused trying to recall a face to my great aunt but failed. I stayed silent, and Sherlock continued on.

"The funeral is Saturday, and I informed her you have prior engagements."

My eyebrows rose, causing his to draw together. An exasperated sigh left me.

"The case is Piccadilly," Sherlock had the audacity to remind me. "I just thought since the tickets were already booked and you exhibited signs of excitement over the trip-"

I held up a hand and stopped his campaign of excuses there. I stood; shoving my chair back, and paced away from the table.

"Sherlock..." I sighed, completely done with my flatmate's idiosyncrasies. "Never assume you know my mind," I walked up to my looming friend and poked him in the chest.

"Family comes first."

Present. 1715 hours. Evening. Outer London.

"Yes hello? Yes. Yes, an alley off of-" I squinted up at the nearest street post. "Telumsie street. No. No! It can't wait for a spare. He needs the A & E! The swelling needs to be treated before his cerebral trauma becomes cerebral hemorrhage! Ten minutes? Thank you."

I hung up the pay phone with a clang. Of course, Sherlock just had to get pushed out of a window during the hospitals blasted rush hour.

Now, where the hell am I? I had jogged what felt like ages up Telumsie street, it being the dinner hour there weren't many people galavanting the outer reaches of the city. My luck was good when I stumbled across the tele box. I spun around trying to orient myself; my panicked heart pumping adrenaline through my veins, causing me to squint against the disorienting bright lights.

I dashed off the moment I recognized my surroundings; the flashing storefronts and blinking neon signs teasing at my gaze. In what seemed like years, I was back at the mouth of the alley. The first thing I registered was the squeal of tires and the acrid scent of burning rubber.

The second thing- the alley was empty.

I broke into a blind sprint, mind empty, legs pumping. Thankfully one had to keep quite in shape when working with a Holmes. I skidded around the edge of the alley, hand drawing out my phone and opening the camera of its own accord. In the blink of an eye, I caught the last sight of the car in a photo, the rear taillight and license plate thankfully attached.

"Oh my God," my hands flew up and ran through my hair. I could hear the ambulance's siren.

"Sherlock!"

 **5 hours ago. Afternoon. 1200 hours. 221B Baker Street.**

I hung up the phone without letting the sales clerk utter a feeble "have a good day". It was most certainly _not_ a good day. I returned my credit card to my wallet and tossed it onto the table, away from me.

I could still sense my anger at the unfair delegation of my friend's disappointment, but I pushed it down. When I contemplated it, I could see where John was coming from. I've been... difficult to handle lately. And John's practice was trimming fat, letting costly jobs go.

I have seen John worrying over paperwork, bringing an unprecedented amount home with him, and I inferred that he must be in danger of being let go, most likely because John was hardly at the office, I'm always pulling him away.

The guilt I felt chewing in my stomach was a rare guest, and only ever showed up when it came to John Watson.

I was feeling restless, there had been no problems for me to solve for over 72 hours. I had been occupying myself with toying around with Arillian's theory of reactions, but I had exhausted all my resources by trying to disprove it. John and I had been hired to protect a foreign diplomat in Piccadilly, the man was paranoid he was the subject of an elaborate assassination plot- I had found no evidence to prove this- but it paid well, and John had been itching to travel so I accepted the job.

I decided on a good strong cup of Earl Grey and went to make it. I could hear John walking about upstairs from the kitchen. The stride of his footsteps to his closet, to the bed, and back again told me he was packing. For the funeral no doubt.

I watched the water in the electric kettle begin to boil. My fingers drummed on the counter top. The tile was sticky from the ionic compound I spilled a week ago. I snatched a rag and stoically rubbed the spots.

That's when my phone began to ring. With an irritated groan, and a bit of hope it was Lestrade calling with a case, I drew it out.

I froze when I read the caller ID.

 _Shite_. He's supposed to be dead.

 **Next chapter soon!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Present. Night. 1830 hours. Scotland Yard.**

I wrung my hands. _Damn._ It's bloody cold in here.

"John."

It felt like pricks of ice were digging into my palms, a special sort of torture. An icy demise. The-

" _John."_

I looked up. Greg's eyes were concerned. Warm. The man himself, looked about ready to pass out from the same exhaustion John felt. Inspector Lestrade had just been grilling John for over an hour as he filled out the report. Now, Greg Lestrade was ready to be a shoulder to cry on. In the figurative sense.

"Are you okay?"

I snorted, "Hell, no. But it doesn't matter about me. What matters now is finding our bloody Detective."

Greg tilted his head and smiled a bit, like I had said the same thing he would have.

"The plates should be back any minute now," Lestrade scratched his nose with a disatisfied sigh. "All we can do is wait."

We stared at each other in silence, than the floor, and the walls, the ticking clock-

My chair skidded back with a squeal. "Damn waiting."

I was out the door before Greg even stood. I ignored him calling me as I stormed to the junior department. I had been there often enough to know where the plate office was.

As I passed few a sea of cubicles, heads began to pop up in my wake over the dividers. I felt eyes on me as I stalked closer to the blasted newbies who ran the plate running desk.

"John!"

I reached the desk. A young man whipped away his phone, but not before I saw the unmistakable colors of Tetris lighting up his screen.

"Sir?" The scrawny ginger shriveled under my fiery glare.

"Instead of playing games- how 'bout you _find my bloody friend!"_

I was about to grab the incorrectly knotted necktie around his neck- and do what with it I did not know- but a hand was on my shoulder, holding me back and steading me.

" _John."_ Greg hissed in warning.

I was about to launch a fervently delivered lecture, when a loud ding distracted us- and everyone in a 3 meter radius who was goggling at me. The game-playing moron jumped and tapped a few keys on his clickaty clackity keyboard, and paused.

"The plates finished running," he looked guiltily at me in a silent apology, and I knew I had overreacted.

Lestrade shot a quick "back to work" glare around at all the curious faces and said to the junior, "Ping it to my office."

I muttered a hasty apology as I practically jogged after Greg, who also was high tailing it to his office.

I flung myself into the screeching desk chair as Greg hastily brought up his monitor screen. I watched in tense anticipation as Lestrade waited anxiously for the display to boot up.

A beat.

" _Dammit_!" Greg had shot to his feet in his surprise.

I looked at him and he looked at me, then he uttered the words I didn't want to hear.

"It's a stolen."

Back to square one.

 **6 HOURS AGO. AFTERNOON. 1330 HOURS. 221B BAKER STREET.**

A knock on my door.

I gave up trying to zip shut the yawning mouth of my overpacked suitcase, and hesitantly walked towards the door.

Was I ready to deal with my flatmate right now? I tried to evaluate my feelings.

But the silence outside my door was drawing on, and for some reason, that worried me. Sherlock should've continued banging away on the door, yelling he needed me as a test subject or something of the like.

I opened the door.

Sherlock was facing away from me, and I could see his profile turned towards the window in the foyer, where cars rushed by.

"Sherlock?"

He slowly turned to face me. His face was drawn in his own special mix of confusion and worry, and his eyes were downcast.

"Sherlock?" I was starting to feel my own worry creeping up my spine. "What is it?"

His pale forest irises lifted up to meet mine, "Trouble, John." He rumbled in his intoxicating baritone voice.

 **AFTERNOON. 1430 HOURS. A CAB HEADED OUT OF TOWN.**

"Where are we going?"

Silence.

"Are we meeting someone?"

A cough. That's a yes then.

"Why aren't you bloody saying anything? You tell me you're in trouble and then you clam up, how am I supposed to help if you won't trust me?" I was getting annoyed.

Sherlock shifted around in his side of the cab, the third tell of nervousness I had observed in the past three minutes. Sherlock was staring placidly out the window, refusing to meet my eyes, but when I said my speal he looked at me.

"I trust you inexplicably John, but it's safer this way. I would have done this alone, but I need backup." His voice was tired, like a great weight had been placed upon his shoulders

"No," I could see it written all over his face. "You're hiding something."

He sighed and his long fingers began to tap tap tap upon the door. "That I am. You're too observant sometimes."

I studied his posture, the slump of his shoulders the regret on his face, and was that… fear?

I leaned forward, "You're… ashamed. Aren't you?"

Sherlock's shoulders stiffened, and he did not respond. I worried at my lip and turned to look out my window. The contagion of his fear had spread through the whole cabin.

The metropolitan buildings and flats of London were starting to give way to give way too dark, longer buildings. I noted with an internal groan that we weren't heading into the good part of town. But of course, why would Sherlock be doing business in a nice park, or cafe. I could hope though.

We were in the warehouse district now. The corporate buildings and blank grey facades were starting to creep up around the cab on all sides like the walls of a cage.

Sherlock leaned forward and knocked on the divider, "We'll get out here please."

I waited and hoisted my bag up further on my shoulder, anxiously scanning our surroundings as Sherlock paid the cabbie. The cab quickly scuttled away like a beetle, and I watched our escape drive away with a sad smirk.

"And how exactly are we leaving after this thing goes down?" I said, eyes still on the retreating cab.

Sherlock mumbled something. I turned to him, he was staring wide eyed at the ground.

"You didn't think of that, did you?" I sighed. "What's up with you Sherlock?"

He was faced away from me as he too inspected the uniform walls of our cage. "Just, preoccupied." He muttered, and he started to walk away.

With an exasperated noise in my throat, I followed after him.

"I'm not a bloody pet for you to drag around until you need me you know." I grumbled at his back.

He looked over his shoulder at me, "You're not my pet. Just my Doctor." He shot me one of his grins, but it didn't reach his eyes.

We were slowly making our way to the end of the row of buildings. My bag was starting to weigh me down.

Sherlock stopped. I continued on for a moment without realizing it, until he yanked me back, before I was about to turn the corner.

"Shh," he gestured to the corner I had just about exposed myself with. "You can't be seen."

I rolled my eyes, "You're sending me in bloody blind."

"Look," he pointed at the warehouse we were currently dawdling in front of. "There is a window on the third floor, it points directly at the place I will be- no I don't have time to answer questions right now. Just trust me okay?"

I glared at him, but not with much fire. "But what am I actually doing?"

He looked pointedly down at the bag he had given me. "Just make sure I come out alive okay?"


End file.
